


Besotted

by LittleWoodenWorld



Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Anncoe - Freeform, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmare, protective!Simcoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 09:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWoodenWorld/pseuds/LittleWoodenWorld
Summary: The war leaves Anna’s dreams turbulent and distressing, and one besotted man does his best to soothe her.





	Besotted

The house was still. Simcoe lay in the darkness, ears straining to catch the small night- noises...the creak of settling timbers, the rustle of dead leaves in the wind, and far, far away the high and piercing shriek of a rabbit being torn by a fox. A moment passed, but the eerie keening did not. It grew louder, nearer, more human. The hair began to prickle on the back of his neck. He knew that voice.

Noiselessly, Simcoe slipped from his bed and moved towards the door. In a few strides he was at her door, ready to strike, to kill, to tear apart anyone who dared to harm her. He burst in, lunging towards the bed where her small body thrashed in a terrible struggle beneath the bedclothes. His hands closed on nothing. Startled, Simcoe ripped back the blankets, revealing only his beloved Anna, unharmed and apparently asleep. He whirled, expecting to confront an enemy lurking in the dark corner. None appeared. His breath was coming hard, clouding in the cold as he swiftly moved around the room, reassuring himself that there was no threat, finding no evidence that anyone had been in the room. The sound began again, causing the Captain’s heart to freeze. 

“...Mrs. Strong?”

He hesitated, still gripping his blade. Was she asleep? He would frighten her if she woke to find him armed and standing over her in his nightshirt. He set the dirk down on her nightstand.

“Anna.”

In the moonlight, he could see her eyes were open, but she seemed completely insensible. Her dark hair curled where it clung to her face and neck, her thin linen shift was damp and clinging, twisted out of place and exposing her white limbs to the cold night air.

“...Stop — please, please don’t!” Her voice trembled with terror, causing the captain’s heart to clench.

“Mrs. Strong...wake up.” His fingers trembling, he reached for her shoulder and gave her a tentative shake. “I’m...afraid you are having...”

“Don’t leave, please!” 

Captain Simcoe swallowed hard. How long had he waited to hear her say those words? How many sleepless nights had he imagined her begging him to stay beside her? Rationally, he knew these words were not for him, that she was deep in some dark world of her own making and unaware of his looming presence. But it made his belly tighten. Slowly, he reached out and drew the damp and heavy blankets up, covering her small frame, hiding the smooth expanse of her bared thigh and the tender curve of shoulder. His throat felt tight, his heart pounded. He would not violate her modesty by gazing on her in this state. As he tucked the blankets up around her, her hand closed on his, trapping it in a grip so tight he felt the bones of his hand grind together.

“Promise me,” she gasped, eyes closed now. Her breathing was slowing. He allowed himself the momentary folly of imagining that she was soothed by his touch, that that sweet, pleading request was meant for his ears. With his free hand, he smoothed back her hair, tucking it behind the pink shell of her ear with infinite gentleness. God, how he longed to trace that same path with his lips.

“I promise,” he breathed into the dark. “I’m here.”

Anna clung to his hand, held it close against her hot cheek, and was soon sleeping sound and untroubled. He sat beside her, sinking into the edge of the straw ticking of the mattress with a rustle. He would not allow himself to stare at her naked limbs, but he could see nothing improper about gazing down at her now. He had been struck by her dark beauty the first time he set eyes on her, harassed and disheveled as she labored behind the tavern bar. Now, her features relaxed and still, she seemed — if possible — even more breathtakingly beautiful. With a long finger, he traced the smooth black wing of her brow, the soft arch of her cheekbone, the delicate line of her jaw. That stubborn chin, the sweet, girlish nose.

Besotted.

That was the only word for this, he thought, with grim amusement. He was completely besotted with this little witch. His fingertip grazed the fullness of her lower lip, his whole body aching for her, aching to pass his lips over the paths his finger traveled, to taste the sweetness of her kiss again. He drew his hand away, not trusting his self-control any further. She had grudgingly allowed him that one kiss, a few fleeting seconds of absolute bliss, but he had wrung it out of her. His pride smarting, he had made as much of a spectacle of it as he could, making a show of claiming her mouth as the town looked on. And her look of contempt smote his heart as she had dragged her hand over her swollen lips, wiping away the touch of his. His expression hardened now, looking down at her in the darkness, as his defenses slid back into place. Simcoe eased his hand from her grasp and moved to the door.

“Sleep well, Mrs. Strong,” he said quietly.


End file.
